Hands
by BonnieD
Summary: Immediate aftermath of "the cross soliloquy". Just a ficlet.


"Hands" by Bonnie My saccharine, angsty aftermath of 'the cross' soliloquy  
  
Hands. Gentle hands, barely touching his skin. Strong hands, tugging firmly at his shoulders, pulling him away from the smoking evidence of his sin. Her hands, which he had never thought to feel again, for once neither abusing nor caressing, pulling him away from the edge of destruction.  
  
"Let go," she murmured, somewhat impatiently. "Spike, get ahold of yourself!"  
  
He half smiled at the words. His love was a warrior not a nurturer and he had to admire that. He tried to tune out the cacophony of voices and struggled to gather the unraveled threads of sanity.  
  
She sat him down on the floor, crouched next to him, and cursorily examined the burns. He'd live, or un-live, but what to do with him now? Obviously she couldn't leave him alone in this fractured mental state. No telling what he'd do. 'Think! Buffy's brain. Solve this. Fix it.'  
  
She bit her lower lip and watched the sharp-featured vampire as he sat mumbling to his unseen mind guests. An impulse to touch his white-gold hair lifted her hand and she gave that desire a smackdown. Touch was encouragement, and the last thing she needed to do was lead him on in any way.  
  
Buffy rose to her feet and crossed her arms, still impassively regarding him, then came to a decision. Clem was his buddy. Let him be the wrinkly demon's problem.  
  
"Spike, get up. Let me take you home," she commanded. "Is Clem still staying at your crypt? He can help you."  
  
"Got to go now. Places to be. Important....things to do," Spike interrupted. "No time for visiting. I'm the gatekeeper now, aren't I? Have to check the tickets." He rose to his feet and sidled away from the Slayer.  
  
"What does that.....? Hold on a minute." She reached out for him and he side-stepped. "You're not going back to the school! You can't just lurk in the basement like some kind of .......Golem. Let me....let me call Angel. He's been through this. Maybe he can help you. In the meantime....."  
  
"Buffy!" For a moment Spike's darting eyes stilled and focused on hers, the light of reason clicked on. "It's all right. There's nothing you have to do."  
  
"But...."  
  
"You can't fix this."  
  
'He's right,' her mind echoed. 'It's not your fault. He's not your problem. Let it go.' Her heart had something entirely different to say on the subject, but she boot-heeled those traitorous thoughts into the ground with practiced ease.  
  
"Spike, I..... Are you sure you'll be all right?" she asked, kicking herself at the blatant stupidity of the question. Of course, he wouldn't be anywhere near all right. Look at him - with his nervous hands and haunted eyes! Eyes which had lost focus again. He was nodding agreement with unheard words and edging toward the door again.  
  
"Quite. Must be going, then. Call if you need anything...." His voice trailed off as he slipped away into the shadows.  
  
"I'll check on you," Buffy called after him. "I'm working at the school now, you know, so.....I'll stop by." She listened to the door close behind him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know it's not my fault - not my problem, but.....I'm sorry."  
  
She brushed her hand angrily across her eyes, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and prepared to clean up the aftermath of the giant worm boyfriend. Time to keep busy, not think, get things done. Years of experience had taught her that getting things done was the best way to get through life with a minimum of pain. So.....  
  
Buffy took a last look around the little chapel. Her gaze came to rest on the ornate cross and her feet carried her toward it of their own accord. She reached out a tentative hand and stroked one arm of the cross, then moved in close and rested her arms on it in imitation of her former lover's pose. Buffy lowered her head until one cheek rested against the painted metal. It felt cool beneath her skin.  
  
Her hands grasped the holy object in an unyielding clench, so strong that tiny indents were pressed into it by each of her fingertips. She didn't even feel it when the skin broke and rivulets of blood trickled into the grooves. Small white hands, sharing pain. Hands that knew better how to hurt than to heal. Just hands.  
  
  
  
end 


End file.
